


Double Trouble

by WitchOfTheWestCountry



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Multi, Rimming, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry
Summary: Vanessa Masters is an art therapist at Mount Massive Asylum who gets caught up in the outbreak and finds refuge with two of her favourite patients.





	Double Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V-bird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=V-bird).



> My first requested piece.  
> V-bird wanted a threesome with her OC Vanessa Masters and The Twins, and I was only too happy to oblige.
> 
> To see her lovely OC, go here: http://fav.me/db4gel3
> 
> Hope I got the gist of what you wanted <3

 

_ Stay calm, Vanessa. Stay calm….. _

It was easier said than done. Crouching in a locker wasn't naturally conducive to calmness, and judging by the noises outside she wouldn't be leaving it any time soon.

Hell on earth had been let loose on the asylum and it had been just her luck to get caught up in it.

The day had started out for Vanessa Masters normally enough: Report for duty at the office; be escorted to the high-security therapy wing; conduct the one-on-one art sessions of 45 minutes each.

She'd been supervising her only session that wasn't one-on-one, the last of the day, when she'd had her first indication that something wasn't right. It was The Twins - two huge men who refused to be separated and whose wish had been granted for some unknown reason. She had no idea of their background, other than the fact that they had to be violent and unstable in order to be in here, but whatever they'd done in the past, they were the only clients who had never given her any trouble.

They were always courteous to her. Respectful. They undertook their tasks with diligence and cooperation and had produced amazing work in the time she'd known them. Extraordinary, delicate watercolours were their forte - animals and flowers usually - which they would then gift to her personally at the end of the session. She had dozens of their pieces at her home, adorning her walls.

She liked them a lot. Possibly too much....

Vanessa was a professional. No matter how her thoughts might stray once she'd packed her materials and gone home she never once let on to either of them the fantasies that sometimes went through her head.

Privately, though, she'd lost count of the number of times she'd lain in her bed with her discreet gold vibrator with the varying speeds and wondered about how it would be to be double-teamed by those two mountainous men….

Today, their session had been cut short, something that seemed to piss both of them off more than she would have anticipated, and they were hurried away without being able to finish their work. Vanessa had carefully stored their unfinished pieces for completion the next time -  a hummingbird sipping from a brightly coloured blossom, both of them.painting the same design but with different colour schemes

The guard on duty with her had been restless and on edge, and left the room several times while she was packing up to speak on his radio, his voice sounding worried and fraught. He'd eventually stormed into the room with a look of panic on his face, seizing her by the elbow with no warning and pulling her towards the door.

“You have to go. Now!” he'd said, fingers stuttering as he tried to punch in the code for the door.

“What's going on?” she'd asked, his unease infectious.

“Nothing good!” he'd told her. “Some of them are loose. If they catch you….”

He'd trailed off, eying her in her sensible turtleneck sweater and modest skirt that had been chosen to be as unsensual as possible but still couldn't hide her dramatic curves.

And then the sirens had started.

They'd gotten separated eventually - although technically he'd abandoned her, running away through the confusion of corridors and leaving her to fend for herself.

 

Vanessa visited Mount Massive Asylum twice a week in her capacity as art therapist, and despite the nature of many of the inmates she'd never felt unsafe. Her presence there was always heavily guarded by no-nonsense men carrying guns - men with stony faces and uniforms which evidently made them feel invincible from the way they carried themselves.

She could see one of them now, through the grill in the locker door. His head was gone. He was not invincible.

She hoped he was the one who had left her.

It might have been Chris Walker who’d decapitated him. She'd spotted him before she'd found her hiding place, wading through seething crowds of inmates, tossing them aside like ragdolls, tearing pieces off as he went.

She'd been lucky to get away. Lucky that when her escort had run in terror, he'd drawn the patients away from her. Lucky that nobody had seen her dodging into the admin building and scurrying under a desk.

There had been blood everywhere. Stray body parts. Screaming and yelling and crashing from all quarters, overwhelming with its volume. She'd pissed herself under the desk when someone had come flying over it to land right in front of her, their guts trailing wetly from a huge gash in their stomach.

She’d stripped off her wet panties and left them there when she'd struck out for safety once the area had been deserted. If someone were to find them, god only knows what they would use them for.

 

The heat in the confined space was making her feel faint, and claustrophobia was starting to set in.

She hadn't seen anyone pass by for a long time now, but despite this she was reluctant to leave. It would only take one of them to find her and she’d be dead. Eventually.

She'd lost track of time in her voluntary prison. Her watch had been smashed in her retreat, and her phone left in the art room.

She was thirsty, and terrified, and dizzy.

She lay her hand against the inside of the metal door, taking deep breaths of the stale air that was by now made up mostly of her fear-sweat. She had to get out, she knew, but thinking it was easier than doing it.

There was a noise outside, hurrying footsteps, and she snatched her hand away from the door. A shadow lengthened on the wall she could see through the gap in the door, and as she watched a man came into sight. He looked normal, if bloodied, wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans. He clutched a video camera in one hand as he ran, shooting glances back over his shoulder.

Vanessa opened her mouth to call out to him, but shut it again abruptly as Chris Walker rounded the corner in pursuit. He was shirtless, looking huge, his big rounded belly covered with blood and gore, teeth bared in a permanent grimace.

He paused in front of the row of lockers, turning his head, snuffling loudly. Oh god, could he smell her?

Vanessa squeezed her thighs together, her bladder feeling loose, and prayed that she wouldn't piss herself again.

Her body started to shake but she held herself rigid, scared her tremors would make the locker rattle.

Chris peered at the locker next to her, white eyes straining, then to her relief he turned and left.

 

Vanessa waited some more, her narrow escape sufficient warning for her. She wondered who the leather jacketed man had been, why he was here.

She was sweating profusely now, further dehydrating herself, and when she tried to swallow, her dry throat closed up to a pinpoint. She was still trying to pluck up the courage to leave the locker when she passed out, the last thing she saw the floor rushing towards her as she crashed through the metal door.

 

She awoke into silence, dim light barely illuminating her surroundings. Cool air brushed her face, soothing her pounding head.

She tried to sit up but in her weakened condition her arms wouldn't support her. She was lying on a hard surface, wood beneath her fingertips.

“She is awake,” remarked a deep, slow voice nearby.

“What a relief,” commented another, it's tone carrying the same calm as its companion.

She drew in a sharp breath, panic clutching at her chest, but a hand touched her arm, big and warm and strong.

“Don't be afraid, Vanessa,” said the first voice. “We don't intend to hurt you.”

“That would be...impolite,” said the second.

Vanessa lay still. She recognised the voices, those unhurried speech patterns with their measured, almost placid pace. The Twins.

She didn't know their names -  she had never been told, nor had she asked.

She said the first word that came into her head.

“Hummingbirds…..”

There was a chuckle close by.

“Yes, it's us. Such a pity we couldn't finish our paintings for you.”

“We could finish them next time, but sadly I don't think there will be a next time.”

There was one of them on either side. She could feel them now, big brooding presences next to her.

They moved as one without conference, a hand under each arm, lifting her into a sitting position. Her long black hair, dislodged from its prim pleat and still damp with sweat, fell over her face, and she brushed it aside with trembling fingers.

There were candles lit, standing on table tops, and they provided enough light for her to see her unlikely rescuers.

She suppressed a gasp at the sight of them.

They were both naked, arms folded over their broad, scarred chests as they regarded her. Unable to help herself, Vanessa's gaze flicked from one to the other….then down.

They didn't seem at all self-conscious in their nudity and simply stood, letting her examine them at her leisure, her heart rate increasing with each second she looked at them.

They stood with their feet apart, the thick trunks of their thighs braced and steady, their abs flexed, their cocks huge and seemingly in a permanent state of semi-hardness.

There were weapons in their clenched fists, sticking out to the side: A machete and a meat cleaver.

“Are you thirsty?” asked Machete.

“We have water,” said Cleaver.

She nodded, made speechless by their appearance, by the power of their unclothed bodies.

Machete turned away, his high, neat buttocks flexing as he walked to a nearby table. She was mesmerized by the smooth roll of the muscles under his skin. Cleaver grunted, seeming amused by her reaction.

The water was in a Styrofoam cup, and it was warm, but it was the best water she'd ever tasted at that moment. She slurped it down greedily, dribbling it down her chin and onto her sweater. When it was gone, Machete fetched her another, and another, until she was finally sated.

“Thank you,” she murmured, setting the cup down.

“You're lucky we found you,” said Cleaver.

“Indeed,” agreed Machete. “It could have been so much worse for you.”

“But you're safe here,” continued Cleaver. “We won't let any harm come to you.”

They stood in silence, watching her. The air felt heavy with tension: Sexual on her side; who knew what kind on theirs. Vanessa had no idea how they thought of her. Didn't know their sexuality, or their desires. True, they seemed to respect her under ordinary circumstances -  she'd always treated them politely - but these circumstances weren't ordinary.

“Are we making you uncomfortable?” asked Machete finally.

“Not as such,” she said truthfully. “Flustered, maybe. Can I ask: Why are you naked?”

Cleaver snorted.

“Clothes are so restrictive. They don't let the body breathe….”

“It was never our choice to wear clothes,” said Machete. “We were forced to. And now that chaos rules….”

“...we choose not to wear them.”

Machete cocked his head on his wide neck, studying her.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice taking on an insinuating tone.

“Do you like to wear those...concealing garments?” asked Cleaver.

“Do you like that they hide your natural beauty?”

“Would you rather be...without them?”

Vanessa felt giddy again, stuck between their verbal tennis match. Her sweater was stuck to her skin with sweat, swampy under her arms, and her skirt smelled faintly of urine.

“I...yes. I'd rather be without them…” she said softly, feeling her face grow hot.

They said nothing, their eyes bright points in the gloom.

Taking a deep breath, hardly able to believe what she was doing, Vanessa grasped the hem of her sweater and peeled it upwards, unveiling her body with a smooth motion that was only spoiled when the turtleneck got caught under her chin. She shook her head, freeing it, and cast it aside.

Strongly aware of their attention, she reached behind her to unhook her bra, the clasp coming loose under her nervous fingers to the stereo of approving sounds.

She knew she was attractive to men. She'd been told so often enough, and it was precisely the reason she dressed so plainly at work, but now that the social structures were relaxed and she could end up dead by the morning, none of it mattered except for the two burly men she’d dreamed about fucking, watching her as she undressed.

She'd lost her shoes somewhere along the way, and her panties of course had been discarded under the desk, so all that remained was the respectable straight wool skirt with the hem that reached below her knees.

She flicked open the button at the back, pulled down the zip, and eased the thick cloth over her hips.

She sat naked on the bare table, the wood hard against her ass. The two men stared at her, eyes taking in her big, round breasts with the purple butterfly tattoo on the rise of the left one; her small waist; the widening swell of her hips.

They gazed at her worshipfully, cocks filling and raising, and such was her position on the table it felt right to be worshiped, as though she were on an altar.

They put their weapons aside, and Machete spoke:

“We've been paragons of patience.”  
“Job-like in the suppression of our desires,” agreed Cleaver.  
“But now.”  
“Now.”  
“Now we indulge.”  
“Yes.”

They closed in on her as one, big square hands encircling her, touching the undercurve of her breasts, lifting and squeezing them. Vanessa leaned back, propping herself up on her arms as blunt fingers teased her nipples, tweaking them, pulling them, twisting them.

They were rough, but not too rough. They handled her with just the right amount of care, just the right amount of cruelty, making her squirm on her tabletop platform, and whatever they did, they did in tandem.

Her arms gave out, elbows crumpling, but they supported her weight easily between them. Together, their heads ducked down, and they each took a nipple in their mouth, sucking hard at the stiffly peaked flesh.

Vanessa heard herself moan, her voice loud in the quiet room. The suction on her nipples increased, teeth just nipping the swollen buds, sending a spike of pleasure through her, pulling at her core.

Her legs splayed out instinctively, heels braced, and their free hands went between her legs. She couldn't tell whose fingers probed the wet suction of her cunt and whose pressed against the hard pebble of her clit, but it didn't matter in the slightest. They worked as a unit, manipulating her, loosening the sloppy muscles, coaxing rivulets of juice from her welcoming pussy.

She hitched in her breath, rolling her shoulders, arching her back, but the sucking didn't relent and she was glad of it.

A finger further explored the open spread of her thighs, grazing the tight ring of her asshole, working its way in.

It didn't hurt, the slippery drool of her cuntslime lubricating the tender hole, and she was pierced in both private orifices, digits stabbing into her with determined pressure.

Her mouth opened as her pussy did, her ass did, mirroring the acceptance of those two slippery holes.

A thumb mashed against her clit, rubbing and grinding, skidding in her wetness.

She put her hands out to the sides, feeling the sturdy walls of their heaving chests, clinging to the bulging swells of their pecs, sweeping her palms over the broad expanse to remind herself of their power, their bulk. She trailed her nails over them, dislodging flakes of dried blood, scraping at the curls of their chest hair. She felt scars against her fingertips, long ones that bore the stripes of long-healed stitches, drawing a line down their ribs to their waists. Had they been conjoined once? Were these the scars of their separation?

Another finger entered her ass, another thumb grazed at her clit, jostling as they shared her.

She reached further down, feeling the weighty heft of their balls, the thick meat of their cocks. She grabbed one in each hand, smearing the slicks of their pre-cum over the heads. She wanted to taste them.

Both heads lifted from her chest, leaving her breasts shiny with saliva.

“Spitroast?” asked Machete.

“Or DP?” asked Cleaver.

They were asking her, and her head swam with the choice.

“Both?” she suggested, realising she should have felt shame but feeling none.

“Ahh….” said Machete.

“A connoisseur!” said Cleaver, both of them drawling their words in their pleasure.

Their hands lifted her, setting her up onto her wobbly knees, and she fell forward onto her hands, the sticky drench of her juices coating her thighs. Her arms trembled under her weight, but she tossed her hair back, wiggling her hips, inviting one or the other back there even as she widened her mouth.

Her eyes closed at the feel of a hand between her legs, so she didn’t know which one climbed up an front and which mounted from behind. It didn’t matter - they were one and the same, availing themselves of her in perfect harmony.

A cock nudged her lips, smearing its residue on them, and she sucked it greedily into her mouth, feeling the meaty swell scrape past her teeth. She pressed up with her tongue, tasting salt and musk, the bulk of the head sliding easily to her throat.

The hand between her legs teased her, fingers on her clit, thumb at her cunt. She clenched her pussy muscles around the intruder, pushing her hips back. A tongue flicked against her, the point dabbing at the wrinkled bud of her asshole and she groaned around her mouthful.

Fingertips dug into her buttock, squeezing, dimpling the flesh as the tongue bored deeper, spreading her around it. The thumb in her pussy withdrew, and there were strong thighs behind hers, the bulge of a cock head pressing to her. It popped in,  stretching the rim of her cunt, opening her wide. There was a shunt, blunt force behind it, and he was in, the shaft sinking into the waiting channel, hugged by it..

The twin in front burrowed into her mouth, his pubic hair brushing her nose, the taut drum of his belly behind it as he fucked her mouth, his hands twining into the loose tendrils of her hair. She did her best to work on it, twirling her tongue, but she was distracted by the thrusting behind her. The head of one prick bumped her cervix, the other her tonsils, rocking her back and forth between them.

She gagged as her throat filled and the twin at the front pulled out considerately, but she pushed her neck out to draw in back in, rewarded by a growl of pleasure.

The twin behind twisted his fingers against her clit, covering his fingers in the drool from her pussy, using it to grease the pout of her ass.

Her juddering arms threatened to spill her face first on the table, and the front twin held her shoulders, supporting her. Saliva dribbled from her mouth and down her chin.

“You’re tired,” observed one of them.

“Lift her up,” said the other.

Hands under her armpits, pulling her upright, the cock in her mouth sliding out, the one in her cunt slipping free, and she sobbed, feeling bereft.

She opened her eyes. It was Machete in front, his jagged grin kindly as he walked on his knees till he pressed up against her, her breasts flattening on his chest.

Vanessa spread her knees further apart, hooking her arms over his shoulders, the smell of his fresh sweat filling her nostrils. She was lifted, and hands at her hips steered her ass upwards, Cleaver poking between her buttocks with the jut of his dick. She gave a squeak as the head pierced her, solid flesh prying her open, a brief moment of pain as her ring muscle was forced. She ground her teeth, accepting him, willing herself to relax.

Machete put his arms around her waist, her knees leaving the table, suspended between them as Cleaver ground his prick into her ass. Machete’s cock slipped between her pussy lips, brushing the tip of her clit, and she jerked in their grip at the sudden surge of bliss.

“Be still….” whispered Machete, as her head lolled onto his shoulder.

“Let us do the work,” said Cleaver, finishing his progress with a jolt of his hips.

Vanessa bit her lip as Machete enteerd her, bruising her pussy with his girth. He thrust upwards, filling her, his cock bumping through the walls to hit his brother’s.

They started to fuck her, finding a rhythm agreeable to both without words, one sliding in as the other withdrew, the process reversed as she clung to Machete, made helpless by her pleasure.

They picked up their pace, buffeting her between them, Cleaver’s hands snaking round her waist and digging into her crotch, finding her clit and rubbing with brisk confidence. Vanessa moved her pelvis in time with them, sawing back and forth, impaled two ways without reprieve.

She could feel her orgasm begin its slow climb in her belly, spreading outwards like a pool of warm oil, tingling and heating her groin. The muscles of her thighs jumped and fluttered, her toes curling into the tabletop.

Cleaver slapped her clit, stinging her into a frenzy, and she shrieked, throwing her head back in abandon as the fire in her stomach exploded, the wave of her climax sweeping through her, making her shudder in their arms.

The Twins came at the same time, both cocks pulsing inside her, held steady now as they pumped their spunk into her, their happy snarls joining over the top of her head. She went limp, sagging onto Machete, Cleaver slumping onto her back, his head between her shoulder blades.

 

They waited for her to recover, holding her tightly till she was able to bear her own weight, her eyes glazed and a stupid grin on her face.

She was sore, true, but fulfilled and happy, at peace with the world.

Climbing from the table, Machete and Cleaver picked up their weapons.

“We should help you get out,” mused Machete.

“This is no place for you,” agreed Cleaver, but Vanessa shook her head.

“We have work to do,” she said. “I want to help.”

The Twins exchanged glances, uncertain for once, but Vanessa was determined.

They found her a weapon - a short spear of metal pulled from a railing, its point sharpened and wicked, and, naked, the three of them left the room.

 


End file.
